


Sun and Moon and Tide

by PandaFlower



Category: Naruto
Genre: Everything I know about astronomy and oceanography converted to prose, Gift Fic, M/M, Mentions of Kissing, Polyamorous relationship, Primordial Beings AU, Rae day, Reams of Prose, it's actually very sweet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-01
Updated: 2018-09-01
Packaged: 2019-07-05 08:34:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,884
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15860025
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PandaFlower/pseuds/PandaFlower
Summary: In the beginning there is the Sun, and then there came the Moon. Together, they pull the tides.(In the beginning there was only Minato, and then there came Madara. Together, they pull Tobirama into their dance.)





	Sun and Moon and Tide

**Author's Note:**

  * For [raendown](https://archiveofourown.org/users/raendown/gifts).



> For Raendown, who I always seem to write threesomes for. Here's for you, babe.

In the beginning there is light and matter and heat, falling inwards and exploding outwards and again and again, like breathing, like the heartbeats of stars.

In the beginning there is hazy color in a time before the words for them existed, floating and spinning and spreading and gathering. Greens and blues and reds billowing out through the void, womb of the cosmos starting its great contracting race, its eddies spinning faster and hotter and more momentous until there is no stopping its great toppling into something _magnificent_.

In the beginning there is only Minato, coalescing in the darkness.

With his first breath he banishes the chill of his surroundings in a great blast of wind, leaving molten, barren rock his only companions.

Minato looks into the void and though he can feel, distantly, the presence of others like himself, he cannot see beyond his own light. He turns and turns every which way, desperate to find something, and in his wake his belt of rocks turns with him, colliding and growing and glowing with heat of their own. And that’s good.

He can see them like that.

Faster and faster he drags them in his wake, spinning and growing and encouraging them to grow in turn and his laughter rings through the void, traveling ever onwards and leaving no echo. Perhaps one like him will hear one day and send their own sound back; laughter perhaps, or sobs of indeterminate emotion, maybe even screaming. Minato finds himself looking forward to it.

His little retinue grows so well. The first of his train is small and heavy, and it doesn’t weather its hail of asteroids well. It remains stubbornly dark and burnt no matter how Minato handles it.

The second of his train he is better at. It mimics him in heat as best it can, drawing around itself curtains of many gases the better to reflect his light back; the first true jewel in his mantle. But as of yet, it bears no life to assuage his aloneness.

But the third, oh, the _third_. There are jewels aplenty that will come after but none will be so important to him as that one. For that one, third of his train, third of his craft, bears _life_ . It begins as the others do, molten and bright and volatile. But this one does something different. _It splits._ A satellite forms in conjunction yet cools much faster, the fires of his— for it is a him! —heart spills over his body with every blow but the remnant, the memory of fire remains.

Minato admires his new companion’s sleeping form, impatient for the day he wakes. Taking in the strong lines, the fine features, the veil of void dark hair hiding the true brilliance of his form like light trapped in a nebula. Minato wonders what he will sound like; the high vibration of singing stars, the deep notes of lumberous black holes, or perhaps even the thunderous non-echo of silence?

Though there were greater distances between himself and those like him he cannot help but feel the distance from this little, lovely moon is the most painful of all.

He can only touch when they share the same plane of the ecliptic but always the light of his sight can reach him, setting his handsome body aglow. And he told himself it was enough. That he could save up all his greed for those hours where they were in perfect alignment.

And then he _wakes_.

And he is beautiful.

He goes garbed in basaltic armor, clacking plate covering the scars left by bombardment. A coronet of ice creeps across his brow, weaving into his hair to mimic the stars themselves, and sweeping down his neck and chest in hexagonal patterns that make him _glitter._

Minato whispers his name to him, his new companion, breathy with excitement.

His is a grand name, made bombastic by nature. The quick indrawn breath a star makes right before it goes nova, brightly scattering its elements far and wide in a quick flash, a nebula returned to its original state, and the sigh of relief a red dwarf makes as it slows and cools and finally comes to a cold rest. It’s growth and contraction and losing and gaining. It’s light and sound and color both small and grand, wavelengths of all sizes trailing out to touch all that can be reached.

All this and his heart, Minato gives freely.

* * *

Madara’s first memory is of Minato.

Is of fire and brilliance and the knowledge from first breath that never will he know loneliness or the dark of the void. Is a name freely given, devotion offered in the same breath. The warmest of welcomes. And oh, he could love him for that alone.

And he does. He does, he does, _he does._

Minato is the brightest being in Madara’s sky; a dancer garbed in the silken, fiery veils of his trailing corona, light gleaming off the floating headdress and belt of metal and molten rock and gauzy gases that represented the planets that followed in his dizzying wake. He dances unending in Madara’s view, spinning and spinning, and he can’t look away.

Can never look away.

Madara can do nothing less than meet him halfway. He kisses his name onto Minato’s skin and into his mouth, and later kisses it out of his mouth. His is a name that dips and curves like the surface of his moon, from the highest point of his dying volcanoes to the lowest curve of his basalt filled craters. It burns like dying fire on the tongue and sears void-chill in the back of the throat.

A fine name to hear shouted for every star to know. Eventually.

Their ability to touch was limited to mere moments by the way they reckoned time but always, always they kept an eye on the other’s brilliance, shouted and sang and belted praise until their soundwaves met and melded in the middle and formed the first echo in memory.

And those sweet moments they were in alignment, oh, Madara had never not known a time he wasn’t greedy for touch. Greedy for his brilliant star’s greed for him.

The void would be so cold without it.

Sweet Minato. Bright Minato. Lovely Minato who smiles and lets him orbit as he may, watching tirelessly as he cavorts up and down and around his planet, eager to explore, to test his limits, to _see_ all that Minato’s light can show him. And when they crossed the same plane of the ecliptic their wild, heartfelt couplings shifted the face of the planet Madara orbited so tirelessly. Pulled the tides of fire up and down and this way and that and spun them until they cooled.

Madara could spend epochs looking back at the literal center of his universe, his lovely, brilliant star, taking in his light and reflecting it back that even his barren planet may never be without his blessing. It makes Madara unexpectedly generous, this love. Or perhaps, it is that there is no one else to vie for Minato’s attention and therefore he sees no need to hoard that which is already freely given.

Minato is so warm under his hands.

Even Madara’s hazy, dreamlike memories of being naught but fire himself don’t compare. But it’s nice, having someone to keep him warm.

His moon is growing cold and his planet offers less heat by the day, growing dark despite his and Minato’s best efforts. And it’s fine, truly. Madara can shine bright enough for the both of them but he’d really _appreciate_ if his partner would pick up some of the slack around here.

Even the second born was doing better!

Eventually, his partner seems to take the hint and draws cloaks of gases about itself and begins the process of shining on its own.

And then it does something different again!

Gases pool on the surface until they solidify, hiding the barren, jagged rock beneath a cool blue surface. So pretty… Madara has never seen such a color outside the blue of Minato’s eyes, had not even thought it possible.

His moon pulls at the waters, as does Minato’s sun. Just as they pulled the tides when the planet had only fire and magma to its name now they bring a different tide.

Minato is the first to notice, the only to have seen its like before.

Madara can only watch in open wonder as a new being breathes his first, emerging from the deep and floating along with the current like sea foam. He’s taller than the both of them, Madara can already tell, and that’s new too; he and his brilliant star are never less than eye to eye.

Madara catches himself admiring him; the lines of his face, the moon color of his hair, the broadness of his shoulders, and the length of his legs. He catches Minato too. Strangely, there is no jealousy like he had expected. But then, the true wonder is that Madara never drifts out of reach, and somehow, neither does Minato. Though they lose contact with each other they never lose contact with this new sleeping being whose domain faces them no matter which side of the planet they touch.

And somehow, this new sleeping other bridges a gap neither could cross on their own.

And he is beautiful.

* * *

Tobirama’s first memory starts before he even opens his eyes.

Soft hands touching his face, his arms, his chest, his legs, touching so gently. If he had the words for it he’d call it reverent. Will call it reverent when the names of such things no longer elude him.

His head is in someone’s lap, his legs draped across another, below is the enormity of himself, his endless waters still warmed by fire, even now smoothing away the sharpness of the planet. He feels warm and safe and languid, perfectly content to fall back asleep before he’s entirely awake. Awareness comes in fits and spurts, like pillow basalt extruding bit by bit, slowed by the coolness and pressure of the depths.

“Come now, you can’t linger in dreams forever,” a warm voice chides fondly, accompanied by fingers in his hair scratching over his scalp. Sensation is so new it sings like lightning down his spine, drawing a weak shudder. “We’re waiting for you.”

“Don’t rush him, Minato,” another voice says dryly. “The lazy sod will wake when he wakes.” Tobirama felt his brow scrunch unhappily at that, vague offense floating to the surface and turning sharp as waking whets it. A hand smoothes over his brow, almost more curious than it is soothing.

Tobirama finds his own curiosity rising to match it and tears away at the last silken veil of sleep, blinking eyes open to _light._

It’s gold and silver and blazing and cold, and he has to blink several times before they resolve into distinguishable shapes to his untried eyes.

And they’re _beautiful_.

A study in lovely opposites in almost every way; short bright hair like a halo and long dark hair like trailing void, radiant golden brown skin and glowing pale skin, deep dark eyes and burning blue eyes, warm light and cold light, a welcoming smile and a reluctantly fond smirk. Tobirama could get lost taking them in at once. _Was_ getting lost trying anyway. He doesn’t know what face he is making but it seems to take them aback at first only to lean in, pleased.

“He has eyes like a hydrogen rich nebula,” the golden one exclaimed, delighted. The pale one’s smirk widened and tutted teasingly, “And all the grumpiness of a struck asteroid pulling its pieces together.”

 _Okay,_ Tobirama decided, pointedly removing his legs from the pale one’s lap, _that one I’m going to drown._

The golden one sighed, “If he’s grumpy it’s only because you make him so, Madara.” Which must make the golden one Minato. Good to know.

“ _He_ is also right here,” Tobirama snapped, sitting up at last and turning to keep them both in view. That seems to startle them. They gaze at him with an emotion he privately echoes back in the depths of soul, soft and warm and awed and no reason not to be.

“You are,” Minato breathes, “you are here, aren’t you?”

Tobirama finds his own breath caught, unable to answer. He was, wasn’t he? He was here. He was alive. He had a _name_ and a _domain_ and an _existence_ and each of those things alone are almost too big to comprehend.

“Hey,” Madara whispers, shuffling closer with nary a ripple on the water’s surface, “hey, what’s your name?”

“My name?” Tobirama repeats.

“You have one like us, don’t you?” Minato asked lightly. “Yours isn’t an existence that can be nameless.”

Of course he had a name! How could he not have a name? It was the first of himself to form and will be the last piece of him to linger when he was old and gone. It started strong like a high tide, and the vowels stretched like a wavelength between the crest of each consonant, the last syllable softened like retreating backwash shushing over shore. It encompassed the highs of his surface, the only shield this planet had from Minato’s pressing radiation, to the lows of his depths where fire and minerals and _something secret, something his_ pooled in safety. Two worlds pressed together and held apart only by the strength of his cohesion.

It sat heavy on his tongue and pressed sharp against his palate, bitter-sharp and gritty with igneous rock worn to powder, fire warmed and light irradiated. It was a name that _wanted_ to be spoken. A name that was drawn to these two beings that orbited him, and pulled him, and pushed him with a look, with a touch.

With an awed smile, marveling at his presence.

How could he not give it?

He draws a mantle of foam about his shoulders, letting it drip down his back. Up his legs he pulls soft magma, molding it to knees, thighs, and hips, and belting it with a gulf stream. A stormcloud gathers at his temples, encircling the cradle of his skull.

He offers a smile back.

“I am Tobirama.”

* * *

Existence is interesting if strangely limited in unique ways. Tobirama is bound to this planet, an astronomer forever looking up, forever yearning. Just as his only company yearned in turn. They all find ways to bridge the gap for each other.

Tobirama would feel he was playing catch up were it not so obvious his domain has the other’s off-balance at the newness. At least he has the instincts that come with it.

Madara and Minato know each other well but they touch like they aren’t used to it. They’re reverent, raw, greedy and gentle by turns. Similarly, Tobirama also has no idea how to react to touch, though at least he has the blessing of never having known and then being deprived.

Madara is the one who yanks him close, the kind of shamelessness that comes of never not knowing touch was an option, if seldom allowed. Tobirama goes willingly for all his show of displeasure. Madara makes him _want_ to move. It’s easy as anything to clash with him, to reach back just as fiercely, to claw at the hard armor and soften the hard edges with the susurration of his currents.

They kiss like a breaking wave; steadily built power releasing all at once on something that can _take it._

Yet, there is an ebb and flow there as well. An easing into each other that’s gradual and sweet. Madara’s gravity is undeniable and Tobirama is indelibly caught. And he knows it. And he knows Madara knows. He’s appropriately scornful of his moon’s overt smugness, though it does please him somewhat that his glittering moon cares so much.

Minato is a gentler, though no less inexorable, force. Tobirama melts into his heat, under his heat, finds himself bowing to that sly smile and those sure hands before he even realizes. Minato draws him into rhythm, coaxes Tobirama to sway with him. They spend rotations tangled up in each other, touching, kissing, mingling breaths and savoring the feel of skin on skin.

Theirs is a gentle tempo when they dance together, the perfect counterpart to Madara’s innate wildness. Warm and constant and steady, gradual yet powerful. A heat that lingered on the tongue far past swallowing.

But when they moved together? _Oh,_ when they moved together!

Tobirama was helpless to their whims, and he loved it.

Loved the way spring tides allow them to work him over in tandem, the way neap tides allow them to divide his attention until his overworked brain had no choice but to surrender to the pleasure. He even loved the way lunar eclipses let him take turns with them individually, and how solar eclipses kept them busy with each other while Tobirama took a much needed break from them to nurture _what was secret, what was his_ down in the depths.

But today is a neap day, and though the tides were moderate his sun and moon beckon him close with eager gravity.

Maybe he’d tell them about the sparks of life soon to rise from the ocean later.

 


End file.
